


Just Enough

by goldenslumber



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:44:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8610931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenslumber/pseuds/goldenslumber
Summary: "Part of her wants to protest that she does not want to go because she does not think it is safe. It is the city, she reminds herself. The castle is secure. The guards are good. The gates are locked. The king is surrounded by Jaime's chosen men that he trusts for the task, even if he did not originally choose them, and that will have to be good enough. It will all have to be good enough. (She will have to be good enough; ravaged and ugly and all.)" A bit of old fun. More practice writings.





	

The keep is whole – is _safe –_ and the stars are starting to pulse pale across the dusky horizon. Sunlight lingers, setting the Blackwater Bay alight with fragile tendrils of gold and pink and orange – the setting of a day – and Brienne stands at the window, watching the night darken by breaths. She runs pale and newly scarred knuckles nervously along the stone windowpane, then fingers the collar of her dress. Allows her eyes to travel from the sky to the grounds below, bursting with birds and small animals, and the people, that are mere shadowed shapes detaching themselves from larger ones; twirling and walking and speaking words muffled by the height of her room.

It is so strange to be back; so strange to be surrounded by courtly matters and by _people_.

She should not have even woken up this morning. And if she must be awake, she should be finding a ship, should be going back to Tarth and her father. If she is awake she should – _wants to_ – be dressed in her armor and holding a sword and patrolling the courtyard, twitching curtains, peering at shadows, nervous, _nervous_ –

Instead, she is in a dress with her skin polished raw by handmaids. It had taken them a long time to chip all the mud from her fingernails, to get over the sight of her broken cheek, to get her in a dress. One of the maids insisted her hair be pinned and braided to the side. “It is easier for you to hide your cheek, Lady Brienne,” she had pointed out. Which was true enough: turn aside her head and the braid falls heavily over her jaw and obscures most of the monstrosity. It is not as though she planned on holding her chin high, to display herself to every eye. She would much rather hunch in her chair and downcast her eyes.

She would much rather _not go_ at all.

Her ribs still pained her somewhat; it would make a legitimate excuse to call upon a maester and bail out on the entire night. Though her arm had healed miraculously quick for the few days she spent in King's Landing, as well as on the two weeks travel to get there from Pennytree, physical injures, long and lingering in their bothersome way, usually tromped silly little ceremonies. Especially ones in which Jaime will be naming himself regent after the death of Kevan Lannister and the re-imprisonment of Cersei, his twin sister.

That is why she _has_ to go, though. “If I am stuck going, you will come, too,” Jaime had told her the day before. “Anyhow, I need at least one friend among the pit of brown-nosers.”

_Friend,_ she repeats to herself. That is why she is going. _Friend,_ Jaime's word lingers in her head. _Is that what they are?_ Brienne tucks her knuckles tight in her palm and leans heavily into the side of the window, sighing. She looks out at the bay, at the grounds, at the festive hall. Everything looks so different when she is not out in the wilderness of Westeros, fighting for her life. The polished silver platter mounted on the wall tells her that not even she looks the same. Even the muddled ties between Ser Jaime and herself do not present themselves right in her head; once, she might of known for certain that it was nothing more than oaths of protection, or debts they paid each other back for, or merely respect for one another... now, she does not know.

Truthfully, that does not matter. Dusk is falling and the Commander of the Kingsguard will await her arrival. She owes him that much; he is the one who came across her and Podrick and Hyle after they were abandoned by the children of the pub, after Biter was killed by the blacksmith and he shouted at them to run before _others_ came, after they limped their broken way through the Riverlands and came across Jaime's fleet.

But she is _nervous_ , still. Her hands rearrange the frock hanging loosely around her too long legs and she turns to the mirror, tilting her face upward, just that confident fraction... and all she sees is the freckles, the gaping piece of her missing cheek, the uneven teeth, the broad lines of her visage.

It shouldn't _matter_ ; it never mattered before. Tonight is the first night she will present herself in public, to the people of the court, and she is uncertain – _why?_ Their opinions and whispers sting, yes, and she shrinks from their whipping words, but she's learned that the blades of swords and the razored teeth of strangers are worse. That is what she's learned. She is braver. She is smarter; not dim.

She still cannot find it in herself to go to the door and arrive to the ceremony.

The chin droops and she turns back to the window.

Part of her wants to protest that she does not want to go because she does not think it is safe. _It is the city_ , she reminds herself. The castle is secure. The guards are good. The gates are locked. The king is surrounded by Jaime's chosen men that he trusts for the task, even if _he_ did not originally choose them, and that will have to be good enough. It will all have to be good enough.

(She will have to be good enough; ravaged and ugly and all.)

The sky is growing ever darker, the stars lighter. Brienne hears the door open behind her but does not turn. There is only one person in King's Landing who would enter her rooms without knocking and in any case she knows his footsteps – practiced and even – the sound of the knob rattling that extra clumsy notch, the way the air shifts, becomes heavier on her back and tighter in her lungs, when he enters a room.

“You would keep me waiting?” Jaime asks her as he closes the door at his back.

“I was coming.”

Still, she does not turn, and Jaime takes a breath that is loud enough for her to hear and she tenses as he steps further into the chambers. Brienne can see him out of the corner of her eye, barely, just a blur of golden hair and slender, well-toned shoulders and pale skin. Like her, he has been prepared for this night's event, primed and polished and not so wracked as he was during their travel – and she does not turn. Does not dare turn. Even when he lays a hand upon her shoulder. “I know that you don’t like this –”

“I _was_ coming,” Brienne repeats, insistent; surely he knows the honesty in her voice. She wasn't going to leave him to the court and its savage participants all on his own. Wouldn't abandon him after all he's done for her; she recalls the way he had been swift to take care of her and her companions when he came across them in the Riverlands, injured and weak, and she remembers vividly how he gave up his horse for her, aided her onto it, laid a horrified, reverent hand over her broken cheek. The flush comes to her cheeks because she also can conjure up the image of herself in her fever induced state, calling out his name and him being there, telling her that he is there, _you blind wench, I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere._

Jaime twists his lips into a half-smile, allowing his hand to slide down the side of her arm and fall to his side. He leans around her and into the wall beside the window; from there, he gazes out at the bay as well. But his eyes flicker back and forth from the horizon to Brienne's reddening face.

One of Brienne's hands moves and brushes the spot where his hand was just laying. As if to shake off the lingering presence of his touch. “I believe you. I just wanted to make sure you weren't having second thoughts.” His eyes are on the ground below the window. “Weren't thinking of jumping, were you?” he asks, offhandedly.

It sounds like a sour joke; but those sharp green eyes find hers and Brienne sees seriousness in them.

“No, of course not.”

“Good. The last thing I need on my first day on the job is to be ordering servants to scrub blood from the stones in the yard. Next thing we know we got whispers about my ruling reputation. 'He's such an awful choice, maidens throw themselves from towers to escape his rein.'” Jaime's voice is dry and sarcastic, and yet, _yet_ , Brienne already knows the doubts that grip him like ice. He does not want this job.

“This is hardly a tower,” she says.

A fluttering, unintentional smile. “But you certainly are a maiden.”

There; the room is tight with air again. “I've not forgotten,” Brienne says, stiffly.

_The whole of the court has not forgotten;_ she thinks this, but she dismisses it in the same moment. There are certainly more important things to worry over than what people think or say.

And just as she resolves herself on this, Jaime's hand reaches out and tweaks the fabric of her dress laying against a hip. “The blue compliments you, as always.” He looks up at her momentarily, then shifts, almost uncomfortably, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning heavier into the wall.

The freckles leap against the blood-pooled scarlet. “As you,” she says, too fast. Brienne back paddles to explain when Jaime raises his eyebrows at her. “The white. Your cloak.. looks well on you.”

He smiles, wide, not moving his considering eyes from her face. “Have we not danced this dance before?” he asks. She does not know what he means. Which does not matter, for Jaime presses his lips together and – after a quiet moment of gazing at the complete solid sight of night beyond – he turns back to her with new words. “I trust you,” he starts.

And waits.

Brienne must admit; “As I trust you.” He has helped her too often for it not to be true.

“That’s exactly why I want you to be my Hand.”

Shock flits through Brienne and makes her stiffen. Her brow creases, and she bites her tongue between her teeth, as she gives him the more incredulous look she can. “Your Hand?” she asks, disbelieving. “But.. I am a knight. I fight. I don't..”

“Brienne,” he says, strongly, (and the sound of her name is enough to break her a little), “who else can I trust?” Jaime touches her on the side of the face and guides her face to him, forces Brienne to meet the gaze she has been avoiding ever since he entered. “Who better to help guard the life of Westeros than the knight that has guarded mine own countless times?”

Brienne shudders when his fingers dance slightly; she watches his eyes center there, and she knows that Jaime is tracing the dust of freckles, from one speck to the other, as if distracted. She recoils. “What will others say?” she asks, softly. “They won't approve. Not the council.”

It takes him a moment to realize she meant about being the Hand. Jaime's fingers falls from her face, landing on the windowsill near her own. He is uncaring, relaxed (the hard part is over); he shrugs his shoulders lumberously. “Doesn't matter. I choose mine own council, too. You'll be on it. Tommen needs to be surrounded by people I can trust, who will have his best interest at heart. Not personal greed.”

“What about..”

“Sansa? If I believed the Stark girl was still alive, I would send you.. but from the reports that are given it is likely she is dead or long passed the Narrow Sea,” Jaime says. “It is safer here. Stay here.” _With me._

Brienne is too stubborn to hear the underscored meaning. She merely hears him telling her that it is too dangerous for her out there. Considering last time he sent her out and she came back, half dead, fevered, and ravished beyond belief.. well, it is not hard to assume this is what Jaime is worrying himself over. She takes the offense to heart. “I swore an oath,” Brienne says. “I have to find her.”

“You will. Once this war is over. _If_ she's alive.” A pause. He turns his eyes to the windowsill and both watches the slow progression of his hand sliding over hers. Each finger curling underneath her palm burns its presence into her skin. “For now, stay here, be the Hand. Help me clean up this mess.”

Brienne is still not certain.

“I could use an extra two hands to make up for my one.” Jaime bobs his golden hand for evidence. He pulls the other from the windowsill, using Brienne's hand to turn her bodily to him, and straightens from the wall; she is still just that breath taller and she stoops to make it less obvious.

“Will you be my Hand?” Jaime asks her.

“Okay.”

“Yes?” His smile is slow to build.

“Yes.”

“That is a relief.” Jaime sags into the window frame and clutches her hand tightly.

Brienne will not lie, she feels unsure about the idea and the agreement, but she's made it. She keeps her arrangements. “Does that mean you will announce it tonight? That I am the Hand?”

“It would have to happen at one point. Why not tonight?”

Now, she does not want to go at all. Nervous turns to an all out flinch at the thought of facing all of King's Landing, put up on a pedestal right next to the golden Ser Jaime and to be put into a position of power that she would never have agreed to if not for Jaime's insistence.

Jaime sees the panic in her eyes. “Don't worry, I'll be there. You don't need to worry about the bore that is to come.” _Except where Jaime worries over petty idle time, Brienne frets over the thoughts of strangers._

“I think I shall put on pants,” Brienne decides, and turns from him entirely.

Jaime lurches and catches her elbow. “What is wrong with the dress?”

That answer seems obvious, and her eyes dance over his form, then to herself. “I should present myself to them as me. If I am to be their Hand, this one dress will not fool them into thinking I am a Lady.”

“There are plenty of other reasons to stay in that dress,” he says, confidently. “I like your dress.” A blush, her eyes downcast to the hand that turns from confining her elbow, to crawling softly up the bicep, fingering the sleeve of the gown. Jaime slinks closer to her. “For one, it makes your astonishing eyes far more entrapping.”

“You don't need to do this.” Brienne's gaze stays down, strays to the left, and she shakes her head. The braid was a good idea, she decides; it falls over her broken cheek and she is sure Jaime can't see it. Until his golden hand moves up, catches a few bitingly cold fingers under her chin and forces it up.

“Do what?” he asks innocently; his eyes move around to try and hold hers. “Be honest?”

“Be placating,” she mumbles. Brienne harshly moves her body away from his hands and turns her back. “Treat me as if I am a girl who needs to be patted and complimented to be compliant.”

When Jaime speaks again, he sounds irritated. “You think that is what I do all day long? That it is all about you, that I spend my time trying to manipulate you by feeding you placating, pretty words? That I lie up and down every time I talk to you? Come now, wench, do not be so self-centered.” And his hand finds her elbow, forces her around, and he corrals her backward.

Brienne stumbles over the rushes on the floor, the back of her knees smack against the bed frame and she falls haltingly onto the mattress. Her hands fly up on instinct to find purchase and twist into the front of Jaime's shirt. Wide eyes glued on his face. “Then what is it?” she asks, not quite so livid, but flustered if nothing else.

“The truth,” Jaime says, as if it is obvious. He abruptly smiles. “Now, will you accompany me to the ceremony or not?” Brienne eyes cast to the piles of clothes at the end of the bed; she still wants to change. She cares too much for what others will think. Jaime's frustration is simmering and he narrows his eyes down at her.. and.. “I can think of another reason why the dress is better,” he says.

“What?” Brienne asks. Her hands are still in his shirt and she makes to remove them, before they can be dropped, Jaime catches one, turns it over in his hand and kisses the side of her palm. The breath all but stops in her throat.

Not pulling his mouth from her hand, gliding lips up the creases, breath hot over her knuckles, he continues to say, “Well, for one, it sets off your pale complexion rather nicely.”

“For two?” she manages, her hand limp in his, watching in almost fascination as Jaime drags the lips down the side of her half-curled fingers, stopping at the ramming pulse in her wrist.

“The color reminds me of sapphires.” The rush of air tickles the skin along her forearm. His hand grips the back of hers, fits perfectly there, curling his fingers through hers, turning the arm into his mouth, littering kisses downward until he reaches the silken blue sleeve. “Sapphires make me think of you.”

Brienne is not sure what is happening, why her heart is in her throat, or why she never wants him to stop. All she knows is that she is scared to speak, to ruin it, that she is bewildered and _frightened_ more than she should ever feel. He has just told her his words are truth; that he _means_ them, that he.. thinks those things. She does not want to see him recoil and turn away and drop her now.

“Third,” Jaime begins, his lips working faster up the length of her arm to the very tips of her fingers, the stubble of dark blonde on his chin scratching the skin in its wake, “it is much easier to dance with you in a dress.” With that, his hand slips around and grips the front of hers, pulls her to her feet swiftly and his right arm winds around her waist. They turn away from the bed and Jaime guides the movements; simple, one step, then two, then another dizzying turn.

Brienne steps on a foot and winces; Jaime merely pulls them to a stop in the middle of the chamber and considers her face. The left hand drops her hand and one single, daring fingers drags heavily down the neckline of the dress. Brienne feels the heated blush from breastbone to ear tips. “I get a nicer view here,” Jaime says, simply. The finger trails down the valley of her breasts, turns over, the back of his knuckles brushing around her waist, until both arms are wrapped around her.

“They'll say I chose wrong. That you're the last person for the job, and that you don't belong at court,” he says softly. His eyes are serious, though, and unwavering on Brienne's. “But I know I haven't.”

Brienne takes a sharp, slow breath. Conscious of every shift of her body, so close to his. Jaime can see her walls, wants to peel them away, but helplessly watches as the mask falls a little more into place, _just a little_ , and his heart clenches with half-imagined pain. “As a king, or regent of a king, or whatever I am.. technically, I can order you to wear the dress, to attend the ceremony.. but..” Brienne is quick to defend her rights, and Jaime smiles fast at the sight of her half-scowl of refusal. He talks before she can assume he means to order her around; “But I won't. And I won't order you to kiss me, so feel free to slap me. After.” And his mouth lays against hers.

Brienne does not slap him. She goes rigid, and feels his hands laying flat against her lower back. [i] _I would not feel them, the heat of them, if I were not in the dress,_ she thinks, unbidden, the fingers tightening and furling and pulling her more heavily into his chest, into his _lips_.

He feels the wench shudder almost before he _sees_ it, feels the walls of composure fall and crack and shatter on the floor and Jaime steps backward, dragging Brienne with him. Lips soft as a give of peace against his mouth. Her hands hesitant butterflies fluttering from his hips to his torso to his shoulders, uncertain with each whisk. Shivering when the open window allows the cool breeze of nice ghost over them. And they finally break apart, breathing harshly, Brienne redder than blood, Jaime smirk a sharp curve cut into his face.

One of his hand is cupped against the back of her neck like this, and the words he speaks are little bursts of heat that pepper Brienne's skin. “Jaime,” Brienne manages, breathless, “I don't think–”

“Good. Stop thinking. Too overrated.”

Despite her words, she does not recoil from him. “What about making me Hand?”

“They’ll be a ceremony later,” Jaime murmurs into the sensitive skin beneath her ear; a shudder wracks through her. “Lords and ladies whispering behind their hands and everything. We were talking about your dress, though.” With the hand on her neck, he shifts the fingers through the twists tight at the base of her skull and uses the leverage to turn Brienne's broken cheek into plain, full view. His lips touch there, too.

“We'll.. we will be late.”

“Another reason not to change, it'll take too much time.” Brienne gasps inwardly, twisting her body slightly against his, when Jaime's lips find the curve of her jaw, the line of her pulse down the neck.

Briefly, she wonders if his lips will trace every piece of skin, as he'd done to her arm. These thoughts are quickly denounced when Jaime places his lips against hers once more. This time her eyes close. This time she slumps and melts into the kiss; she trusts the kiss.

Jaime walks them back until they are standing against the frame of the window, Brienne's back against the corner of white stone. He slips the golden hand around her waist, up to the shoulderblades, feels out the strong lines, the sharp angles of the bones, feels the muscles tense underneath the length of the inside of his existing wrist and forearm. The lights of the distantly begun ceremony are bright and flaring in the distance. The moon is spreading, the sky beginning to flicker with pale white, and Brienne arcs toward him like the drawing of a bow as Jaime presses each word against her skin. “Let me show you,” he breathes. “There is... another reason. Much better.. than the... rest. Let me show you.”

“Show?” Brienne word is faint, a wavering thing that barely makes it passed the constricted track of her throat. But her hands are strong against Jaime's lower back, eager, even.

Jaime knows his thoughts are far off, very far _gone_ , and the ceremony is no doubt begun, is missing its most important guests (but in truth, no one cares for them, and he does not care enough about keeping them on their toes for a little while longer) but he is _aware_ that they have so little time, so very little time. And it seems he has not nearly kissed her enough, has only just begun.

“ _Show_ ,” he confirms. His hand moves from her hair to the side of her hip; he realizes he only has one and that is irksome. “Give me your hand.” Both of hers go to his one, but he only wants one and he guides it to hover over her right hip. He helps her twist the fingers into the fabric, moves the gold hand there to hold her position. His left finds the left hip and he drags his mouth back to hers for a kiss that is brief and sloppy, too wet, too open. “If you weren't in a dress, I couldn't do this,” he mutters warmly into her mouth, and then, abruptly, Jaime hikes their hands upward, kneeling before her with ease of practice.

The startled sound of Brienne's breathing, as Jaime presses a kiss against the side of her knee, is loud.

Jaime wets his lips. His hands tweak tighter into the crimped frock, pushing it higher, the hem of the dress just dragging against the side of his face, brushing the outside of Brienne's upper thigh. The fingers not tangled into her own dress, beneath the trap of his golden ones, go to the back of his neck, fitting there, perfectly, blazing as a brand.

“Jaime.” She sounds small.

“You do not like this reason?” Another kiss, on the flat of her thigh, that moves downward. The side of his face glides over the dips and rounds and rises of her kneecap, before turning, his mouth – tongue, hot and wet, flashing out momentarily, tasting the salty flesh – touches the outward slope of her strong calf.

Her shoulders, once tense, give a shake, in a quick, girlish sort of jitter.

She likes it. They both know.

They say nothing.

Jaime drops the bundle of dress in a hand; Brienne catches the tumble of blue silk before it can cover him and hikes it up once more. Using the free arm to his advantage, he reaches out and draws a leg out from under the wench, kisses along the curve of her calf, slides his golden hand down to cup the back of her right knee. The bones there are somehow thinner than the rest of her, impossibly weaker as he feels her legs quiver underneath her weight; she slips more heavily into the window frame to keep her balance, muscles jumping beneath the path of Jaime's lips. First his hand, fingers smoothing the surface, rising gooseflesh, dovetailed with his mouth.

The dress-hem brushes light on the side of his face once he reaches her thigh again, and he cannot help but wonder how pale the skin is there, how no one has seen this piece of her, or her like _this_ , all hot and bothered, toes curling, eye bright and cautious... she is strong, well-made (he thinks), not like any other woman, but not unmarred by scar, gentler – _somehow_ , and the touch of her hand on the nape of his neck is barely a whisper and undeniable, an anchor-chain pulling him up from the deep.

Softly, infinitely slowly, he traces the blue line of a vein up the inside of her thigh. It is a vulnerable place; if someone were cut here the blood would spill forth like a river. “We’re in the window,” Brienne suddenly gasps, “someone could –”

_Someone could hurt you,_ Jaime thinks _._ He presses his mouth to the racing pulse-point of that vein as if he can ward the wench against that, but what he says instead is, “Will you wear the dress?”

He feels her uncertain, wavering intake of breath as if it is a solid thing. “Yes.”

Jaime smiles into the side of her thigh, closes his eyes for just that _moment_ , “You will be my Hand?”

“I already–”

“You will stop caring what others think and say?” _One last kiss_ , he tells himself. Against the swoop and dip of flesh between leg and hip. This time Brienne jumps beneath his touch.

She must. She must accept that it will all have to be good enough. “Jaime.”

“We're late,” he finishes for her, and rises; the dress falls into place all around her legs, and his eyes trace over the wrinkles left in the silk, a hand moving to flatten them out. Then he assesses Brienne, trace his eyes all over her, notes all the wrinkles left in her composure and cracks fixed into those damned walls. “Let's not keep the kingdom waiting any longer.”

They don't; Brienne does not object and nods and follows him to the hall. There is one more, though, despite Jaime's thoughts. One more. To her lips. Quick and passing, in front of the outside door, underneath the moon and starlight. A brush of dry lips. Strong, though, swift.


End file.
